


From London To Madrid (EngSpa Week 2k17)

by asylumsession



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood and Injury, EngSpa Week 2017, Like, M/M, Panic Attacks, Suicidal Thoughts, but the other two are fine, historical accuracy who?, i don't know her, i only ended up actually writing three days of this rip, lots of trigger warnings in that one, the third one is a spanish civil war au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 17:06:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11971815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asylumsession/pseuds/asylumsession
Summary: London Rains - In which a thoughtless action on Antonio's part leads to a long delayed conversation. || The Word Of Your Body - In which Arthur gains a new muse. || Shelter - In which Antonio wages the cost of war over his own personal shelter.





	1. London Rains

It’s raining again in London. 

Antonio doesn’t know why he’s here; he loves the sun and warmth and smiling faces, but here it’s cold and wet and everybody looks so somber. He knows he should have expected the rain, but he’s dressed in a short sleeved shirt shaded a color that reminds him of the evergreen oaks back home. It’s soaked a shade darker and plastered to his skin, not unlike his hair. 

The rain comes down in a mighty torrent, all darkness and heaviness, soaking Antonio to the bone and rolling effortlessly off of tan skin. 

He turns his face up to it, eyelashes fluttering against his upper cheeks, hands draped by his sides. People weave past him; it’s surreal. He stands, unmoving, while all of this life goes on around him. 

He can already hear Arthur’s nagging voice in the back of his mind.  _ Idiot, _ he’d say,  _ you’ll get sick if you stand in that rain! What in God’s name were you thinking? _

Antonio would reluctantly admit that he wasn’t. At least he doesn’t  _ think _ he was.

Thinking, he supposes, just isn’t something he should be doing. He’s reckless; acts before he thinks. Arthur isn’t so much like that. Antonio likes watching the way his expression pinches when he’s thoughtful, lips turned down and the little tug between those godforsaken eyebrows.

_ Ah _ , Antonio’s thoughts come to a stuttering stop. He’s thinking about him again. God, he shouldn’t be here. Arthur’s expression flickers behind Antonio’s eyelids every time he blinks; the blond looks baffled, lips parted and green eyes squinting dubiously. Antonio wishes he could take back what he said, that day. 

He hasn’t seen Arthur since. 

He drops his gaze and shoves his hands in his pockets, grateful for once that he’d forgotten his phone again. He doesn’t have a waterproof case yet; it would’ve been destroyed in this weather. Antonio brushes his sopping hair away from his eyes and ducks his head, falling into the pace of the people on the crosswalks. He knows where he’s going by now, and his feet take him there without his mind thinking about it. 

People under umbrellas give him odd looks, boots splashing in the puddles as they hurry across the street. Antonio goes ahead, picking up speed, walking, walking. Walking turns to power walking turns to jogging and suddenly he’s  _ sprinting. _ He flies down the sidewalk, half shoving past people with only a little bit of trouble. 

_ I think I love you, _ Antonio had told him. 

It wasn’t often he got Arthur to laugh, but it never failed to take his breath away. After one such instance, the words had slipped out before Antonio could even consider them - another downside to never thinking before he acted, he supposes. Arthur’s lucky. 

_ You don’t think, _ Arthur had replied, and refused to speak of the subject again.

Antonio has memories here, images that rush past him in the wind and rain, streaming through his soaked hair and wreathing over his ears and shoulders. He’s lying to himself; he knows  _ exactly _ why he finds himself here so often. Rain or no rain, this is Arthur’s home. 

He takes the apartment complex’s steps two at a time, hurtling himself up the narrow concrete platforms, fingers slick on the metal railing and threatening to let him slip. He doesn’t know if it’s just dumb luck, but he’s here and  _ knocking _ before he dares second guess himself. 

There’s a moment, in between the time his knuckles leave the door for the last time and the time it opens, where the whole world seems to hold its breath. 

And then green meets green and Antonio smiles that blinding smile of his in response to Arthur’s gaping expressing. 

“Bloody  _ hell _ ,” Arthur hisses, throwing the door open and towing Antonio in by the collar of his shirt, “are you  _ mad _ ?! Did you honestly come all this way without at least a coat?!”

Arthur goes on, but Antonio’s too busy staring. He’d expected this, at least - it  _ had _ been a dumb decision. He’s suddenly hyper-aware that he’s  _ freezing _ and Arthur is practically radiating heat in comparison; it’s funny, he notes, because it’s usually the opposite way around. If Arthur notices that Antonio is shivering, he doesn’t pause to give notice. 

“-anything to say for yourself?” 

Antonio blinks. “You’re cute when you’re angry.”

Arthur stutters, trips over his words, and then promptly glowers, smacking Antonio over the head. The Spaniard just laughs, watching as Arthur stomps off into the other room, returning momentarily with a towel. Antonio narrowly misses getting smacked in the face with it as Arthur tosses it to him.

“Oh, shut up and dry off,” Arthur grumbles, “I haven’t got any clothes that will fit you properly so-”

“I can just go naked?”

“- _ you’re going to have to deal with ill-fitting sweatpants _ , is what I was  _ going _ to say.”

Well, Antonio huffed,  _ that’s _ no fun. He opts not to piss Arthur off more. 

\--

“Here,” Arthur murmurs, setting a cup of tea down in front of him.

Antonio is watching raindrops race down the apartment windows, blurring the outside world from within. He still has a towel draped over his head and is now clad in nothing but gray sweats that come just above his ankles; he always forgets how small Arthur is. He’s got such a big presence. The tea gives off warmth and draws Antonio’s attention away from the steady drumming outside. He isn’t sure what kind it is, but it smells nice. His clothes are drying off - he can distantly hear the sound of the dryer.

“Thank you,” says Antonio, though he’s not entirely sure what he’s thanking Arthur for.

Arthur waves one hand dismissively and lowers himself into the nearby recliner. Antonio can feel his gaze, even when he closes his own eyes to take a careful sip of the tea. 

“Don’t burn your tongue,” Arthur tells him, raising one eyebrow.

“That’s definitely not what you wanted to say.”

“More observant than anyone gives you credit for, as usual,” Arthur is drumming his fingers against his leg absently, gaze distant. “Why are you here, Antonio?”

Antonio watches the ripples in the sepia of the tea for a moment longer and then withdraws his cold fingers from around the mug. He doesn’t answer right away, turning his gaze back to the window. The rain hasn’t let up - it seldom does, he supposes, at least whenever he’s here - and his gaze follows the droplets down the windows, splotches and streaks against the background of other apartment complexes. 

“Hm,” Antonio muses, finally, “I wonder.”

He can practically hear Arthur roll his eyes. The Spaniard listens as Arthur rises and crosses quietly towards him; Antonio expects a flick, but remembers that he probably just can’t feel it through the towel draped over his hair. The water from the curly strands keep dripping onto the bridge of his nose and over the back of his neck. 

“Please, even  _ you _ had to have a reason.”

Antonio lifts his gaze to Arthur. “What if I said you were the reason?” He replies, tracing the rim of his tea. “Maybe I just wanted to see you.”

“You aren’t funny, Antonio.”

“I’m not joking.” 

“If this is about before-”

“About  _ when _ , Arthur?” Antonio frowns now, but doesn’t meet Arthur’s sharp eyes. “When I told you I  _ loved _ you? Because you  _ obviously _ took that well.”

“I’m not having this conversation with you right now, Antonio,” Arthur snaps, sucking in his cheeks like he always does when he’s frustrated.

He’s glowering. Antonio sighs and shuts his mouth; he’s just frustrated. He hadn’t meant to rile Arthur up. The brunet takes a sip of his tea and listens to Arthur simmering nearby. They’re silent for a while, after that. 

Arthur is the first one to break it. 

“Antonio,” he says, voice softer, “I didn’t mean-”

“I know,” Antonio interrupts, but he doesn’t look at Arthur, “it’s okay.”

He doesn’t want to hear the words Arthur has to say, even if he already knows what they are. They aren’t quite a thing, not quite dating, not quite exclusive, never quite this or that. Antonio hates this tightrope act they have; Arthur’s balance is  _ perfect _ , but Antonio is stumbling, lately, teetering dangerously over the drop they stand above. And  _ god, _ he’s terrified. Arthur approaches again; Antonio is still gazing out the window. He can faintly see his own reflection - he looks tired. Vaguely, he can see the reflection of Arthur standing just behind him, staring out, trying to figure out what Antonio is staring at. 

“I had a thought,” Antonio starts, finally. 

“ _ Oh no _ .”

Antonio whirls, gaping. “Wha- I swear it’s a good one this time!”

A little smirk tugs at Arthur’s lips. “The last time you had a  _ good _ idea, Antonio, it landed you in the middle of a downpour in London.”

It only takes Antonio a second to figure out that Arthur is referring to  _ today. _ He can’t tell if Arthur is implying that it was a bad idea for Antonio to have come here or not. A pang strikes him and he peers out at Arthur from beneath dripping hair and a white towel. Even here, in the terrible lighting of Arthur’s apartment, Antonio admires him. He wishes, as he always does, that they were something  _ sure _ . 

“I meant it, you know,” he murmurs, unbidden, “what I said.”

Briefly, confusion flickers over Arthur’s features. Antonio wonders if those are freckles he sees, faded, splashed beneath Arthur’s eyes. 

“Which part?”

“I think you know which part, Arthur,” Antonio holds his gaze.

Antonio knows he does. It seems to click and Arthur lowers his gaze, just briefly, before looking up at Antonio from beneath pale eyelashes. Finally, he seems to come to some resolve; Antonio only briefly has a moment to hope he hasn’t pushed Arthur away entirely, but then Arthur is stepping forward, reaching out with one hand. 

Antonio instinctively lifts a hand to intercept him, but Arthur’s fingers curl around the edge of the towel, just over Antonio’s forehead, and tug it down over his eyes. Antonio’s mind whirls with questions, but he’s not presented the chance to ask them. 

Before he can open his mouth, Arthur’s lips are on his, hard and cold and fierce and  _ demanding _ . Antonio’s thoughts immediately falter. 

“Stop talking,” Arthur breathes, harsh and husky against Antonio’s lips.

_ Ah, _ Antonio thinks.

Outside, the rain drums on.


	2. The Word Of Your Body

The first time Arthur meets Antonio Fernández Carriedo, his immediate thought is that he’s the most idiotic, second most obnoxious, and most _ridiculously handsome_ _person_ that Arthur has ever met in his life. He’s all tan skin and dark hair and blinding smiles and Arthur can’t look away from brilliant, green eyes and dark, long lashes until Francis clears his throat and Arthur realizes that the first most obnoxious person he knows - the aforementioned Frenchman - is smirking wickedly. 

Arthur already knows he’s screwed.

\--

“Antonio’s a dancer, you know,” Francis tells him, later, stirring the whipped cream into his coffee. 

Arthur chokes on his tea. 

“ _ I never asked.” _

Francis smirks. “Just thought you’d like to know he’s  _ really _ flexible.”

Suffice to say, Francis ends up footing the bill.

\--

“Arthur, right? Francis’ friend?” 

Arthur starts at the voice and nearly drops his phone in his haste to whirl around, coming face to face with startling green eyes. Of course it’s Antonio, the one time Arthur looks like  _ trash _ . 

It’s been a long day and the blond is heading to his last class, wearing his pajamas - he’d been too exhausted to bother with changing when he woke up this afternoon, but now he’s regretting it. Antonio looks flawless, if not stylishly disheveled. He’s smiling that  _ damn _ smile again and Arthur wants to put his hands on both of Antonio’s cheeks, lean in  _ really _ close, and demand to know if Antonio realizes how  _ cute _ he is. 

The thought itself leaves the tips of his ears burning and he coughs behind his hand in order to hide his embarrassment.

“Yes, that’s me,” he replies, gaze darting, “Antonio, correct?”

If at all possible, Antonio’s smile brightens. “You remembered!”

Arthur cracks a smile. “I did.”

\--

He finds out Antonio is a Botany major. 

Arthur himself is majoring in Criminal Psychology and the workload is killing him; Antonio always seems so carefree. Arthur finds him, often, in the school greenhouse on the roof. He looks at home in the warmth, dazzling with the sun at his back. He’s not so terrible when he isn’t with Gilbert and Francis - certainly more tolerable. Arthur won’t admit it, but he enjoys the moments they spend on the roof. 

He listens more than he speaks, but Antonio always has lots to talk about. 

He talks about everything from plants to his friends to his family to random facts that Arthur never would’ve known if he hadn’t heard it straight from Antonio. 

The more they talk, the deeper Arthur sinks, the more his chest aches. There’s no way a guy like this isn’t already claimed.

\--

“So,” says Francis, sliding into step alongside Arthur with that same obnoxious smirk, “I’ve noticed you and Antonio have been spending an awful lot of time together.”

“So?” Arthur glowers.

He’s not in the mood for Francis’ attitude today; the blond is like a brother to him; an irritable one, but a brother, nonetheless - but Arthur is liable to punch him today. His mood is sour and he isn’t entirely sure why. Francis just rolls his eyes and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. 

“ _ So _ ,” Francis drawls, ignoring Arthur’s very clear hint, “it’s a  _ shame _ he doesn’t have a boyfriend yet.”

Arthur’s gaze darts up. “...You have my attention.”

Francis’s ever present smirk morphs into a wicked grin.

\--

Arthur’s trying to describe the exact green of Antonio’s eyes. He writes poetry in his free time, burns it often, never dares to show another soul. Lately he’s found a muse in the form of his own personal sun, a man with emerald- no, evergreen, he muses, or bottle, perhaps? - but not quite that, eyes. 

These, he stocks, hiding them wherever he can in his dorm room. He buries them beneath the mattress and under the pillow, shoves them into drawers and tucks them behind posters and between books. He feels like the protagonist of some cheesy fanfiction, hearts spilling from between his fingers as he tries in vain to keep them crushed against his chest. 

Sometimes his roommate gives him odd looks when he returns to Arthur scribbling away furiously, only to fold the paper as many times as he can and tuck it into hiding with all the others. 

Thankfully, his motives are never questioned.

Arthur doesn’t do spoken word, but he’s not sure if he could  _ stop _ once he got started. 

\--

“Are we friends?” Antonio asks, out of the blue.

Arthur isn’t even drinking anything this time, but he’s not expecting it and he nearly chokes again anyways. He’s in the library this time, papers and study notes spread across the table he’s claimed in the corner. He’s studying, preparing for a big upcoming exam, and isn’t paying his surroundings any attention, so Antonio’s abrupt presence startles him half out of his skin. 

Arthur’s heart is in his throat and he takes a half hissed breath in, pressing his palm flat against his chest. 

“Bloody  _ hell _ , Antonio,” he breathes, “ _ warning _ would be nice?”

There it is again; that same grin that makes the Spaniard’s eyes light up. Antonio slides into the seat across from Arthur, shoes knocking lightly against Arthur’s shins beneath the table. Arthur ducks his head, turning his gaze on the papers again. The words are all starting to blur together; god, he’s exhausted. 

“How long have you been studying?” Antonio asks, twisting the little cloth bracelets he’s always wearing. 

“Um,” says Arthur, eloquently, “I don’t know.”

Antonio’s fingers stop. Arthur catches himself watching them. He tears his gaze away and slaps his cheeks to help him focus.  _ Study your work, Arthur, not Antonio’s very… attractive, uh, _ his thoughts choose not to cooperate with him. 

“Hey,” says Antonio, reaching out to touch Arthur’s fingers. 

It gives Arthur a start; his gaze snaps back up to Antonio’s clear eyes. “...Huh?”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Antonio tells him, withdrawing his hand with an odd look, “are we friends? I mean… You always seem kind of chill around me, so I assumed so? Then again, I see the way you act with Francis, so maybe not-”

Arthur cuts in, perhaps a bit too quickly. “Of course we are.”

The grin is worth it. “In that case, here,” he laughs, twisting and handing what looks to be - oh, bless Antonio -  _ coffee. _

Arthur half snatches it. “You, my friend, are an angel.”

Kelly green. No, malachite.

\--

Arthur is convinced this is the creepiest thing he’s ever done in his life. He sinks further down in the booth, fixing his hood over his eyes. Across from him, Francis, dressed only in a pair of shades and a trench coat for a disguise, just smiles calmly and reclines, absently twirling his straw.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into doing this,” Arthur whines, but his voice is quiet. 

Francis rolls his eyes. “As I recall, stalking one of my best friends was  _ your _ idea.”

“I am  _ not _ stalking him, I’m just… curiously observing from afar!”

“Uh huh,” says Francis, expression visibly showing that he didn’t believe him, “anyways, can we wrap this up soon? I’ve got a date.”

“A da-?”

“With my boyfriend?” Francis rolls his eyes again. “Honestly, Arthur, you don’t pay attention to anything once you’re infatuated with someone.”

“Infa-!” Arthur hides a cough. “I am  _ not. _ ”

Francis lifts one eyebrow, and then shifts, smiling at something behind Arthur. “Oh, Antonio! Fancy seeing you here!”

Arthur releases the most startled  _ squeak _ and whips around - only to find that Antonio is in the exact same place he’d been before, perched in a window booth with his back to the wall and typing away on his laptop. The cafe’s door dings as another customer comes in. She crosses to Antonio and slides in across from him, hasty apologies coming from her.

Arthur’s chest twists at the sight of Antonio’s dazzling grin.

“That’s it,” he snaps, feeling the tips of his ears burning, “I’m killing him.”

Francis takes a calm sip of his coffee, disinterested. “ _ Or _ you could just man up and ask him out.”

Arthur sinks down. “K-Killing is… easier…”

Francis just lifts his gaze. “Oh, hello, Antonio.”

“Francis,” Arthur starts, “I’m not going to fa-”

“Francis! Hey!”

Arthur chokes. 

\--

“Figured I’d find you up here,” Arthur says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. 

Antonio is sitting near the edge of the greenhouse, staring out into the distance over autumn blanketed trees. The air is getting colder as the fall encroaches, closing decaying fingers around the earth. Antonio looks sad to see the summer go. 

He smiles, softly, as Arthur approaches. “Guess I’m sort of predictable, eh?”

“More or less. It’s not a bad thing.”

“You were looking for me?”

“Yes, well,” Arthur cards his fingers through his hair and drags his tongue over his dry lips, “I figured it was about time I told you something.”

Antonio’s eyes are wide and curious. He tips his head and turns full to face Arthur, waiting for him to speak. Arthur is taking his time, collecting his thoughts, wondering if this is such a good idea. He supposes it can’t hurt - well, that’s a lie, since it just means their entire friendship is at stake - but between Francis and others pushing him, Arthur just wants it off his chest. 

That, unfortunately, doesn’t mean he’s going to be  _ eloquent _ about it.

“You’re kind of, sort of, uh, rather,” Arthur clears his throat, looks away, “you’re always on my mind and I don’t really know how to handle it?”

Well, he supposes, there’s a reason he doesn’t do spoken poetry. 

Antonio blinks, baffled by the rapid stream of words. “Are you… confessing to me?”

“Perhaps?” Arthur manages, unsurely.

“Well,” says Antonio, “I certainly  _ hope _ you are, because I’ve got to be honest, I’ve probably been head over heels for you since… Maybe two weeks after we met?”

God, Arthur feels like he can breathe again. 

“Thank goodness,” he sighs, slinking forward into Antonio’s waiting arms.

In the end, he just settles for emerald.


	3. Shelter

Two years, eight months, three days.

Spain is keeping count. Somehow, even through the pain he feels with every step he takes, he’s keeping count. His people have been tearing each other apart for two years, eight months, and three days. 

He’s just so tired. He can’t keep tearing himself between his people like this. He doesn’t know what he needs to do, he just knows he needs it to stop. Grave after grave after grave, he grows weary of burying his people, his  _ friends _ .

Spain doesn’t like the color red anymore. He’s seen it too much, felt it too much, hot like anger and a phantom on his skin even after he scrubs it off. He wakes, often, in a cold sweat, body aching with imaginary wounds. He doesn’t ever remember his dreams - nightmares - anymore, but he knows they’re bad. 

The emotions always linger with him for long after he forgets; anger, agony, grief. He’s not sure he  _ wants _ to remember.

Two years, eight months, four days.

\--

“Look at what you’ve become, Antonio,” a familiar voice lilts, but Spain doesn’t quite recognize the words he’s using, “I don’t think I’ve  _ ever _ seen someone look so lost in their own home before. All that blood looks good on you; really brings out your eyes.”

Spain blinks slowly at him. Hazel eyes fix on him, cold. No, Spain recognizes him. He smiles, tightly, weak. 

“Veneziano,” he laughs softly, lowering himself slowly to the floor and leaning heavily against the wall, “come to brag? How is Romano?”

Veneziano folds his arms over his chest, gaze sweeping over Spain. Spain knows how he looks, blood splotched and covered in ragged bandages, disheveled and dirty, eyes sunken and bloodshot, lips dry. 

“ _ Romano _ is still part of the rebellion. I don’t  _ know _ how he’s doing,” Veneziano informs him, sharply, oddly.

This isn’t Veneziano. This is a brainwashed man, conformed to the ideas of the crook who leads his nation. This is the man whose country is aiding one side of his people, the Nationalists, alongside a Nazi Germany. Spain struggles to drag one knee up and drapes a badly bleeding arm over it. 

“What happened to you, Feliciano?” He asks softly, searching for a spark of that cheerful kid he once knew.

“You’re not going to survive this war,” Veneziano tells him, avoiding the question entirely, but Spain sees the way his shoulders ripple with tension. 

Spain just laughs. “If I were concerned about that, Veneziano, I’d have brought it up months ago,” he informs him, dragging himself up, slowly, to his full height, “I’m old, Veneziano. I’ve seen it all. War, death, murder… Some things never change.”

It’s only when Veneziano, frustrated, sweeps out of the room that Spain allows himself to feel the weight on his shoulders again.

\--

Once the dust settles, Spain walks among the bodies of his people. He closes his eyes as he steps around the mangled, bloody corpses, remembering them, trying desperately to ignore the caws of the scavenger birds as they circle threateningly overhead. 

“Antonio,” comes a voice, and suddenly everything is steady all at once.

Green meets green. 

“Arthur,” he breathes.

His shoulders tremble, and despite the blood he’s half covered in, England practically cradles him as Spain cries for his people at last.

\--

“I just want this senseless fighting to end,” Spain tells him, later, staring at the ceiling. 

England’s fingers comb through Spain’s tangled hair, slowly, relaxing. Spain’s mind is clear for once, grounded by England’s presence. This man is his tether here, his only shelter in the turmoil of this civil war. 

“I’m so tired, Arthur,” he says, voice rough, choked, “god, I’m so tired. How do you stand so many wars? I’m killing my own people… And little Veneziano, I don’t even recognize him anymore. He’s become so cruel…”

His chest feels as though it’s trying to claw itself apart from the inside and recently he’s been coughing up blood. It’s not himself he’s concerned about. He’s frightened for his people, for the widowed women and orphaned children and the young men running into a meaningless fight. He wishes it would end; he’s so desperate. He’s fighting himself and his own people, and Spain’s starting to think it’s an uphill battle. 

England shakes his head. “Don’t speak, Antonio. Rest.”

Two years, eight months, one week.

\--

In his dreams, Spain is standing over a faceless man. He doesn’t know who he is or which side he’s on, but there are people whispering behind him and a loaded gun in his hand. Phantom fingers squeeze his shoulders, pressing down, a weight on his back. His pulse is throbbing beneath his skin, a steady  _ thump thump _ across his entire being. There’s blood rushing in his ears, but he can hear the whispers over his own thoughts. 

_ Kill him, Spain, _ one disembodied voice tells him,  _ kill him and end the war.  _

_ Kill him _ , says another, lighter, familiar,  _ because you have no other choice. _

_ Kill him! _ The third is low, wavering, chilling.  _ Kill him because you want to. _

Does he want to? For a moment, Spain doubts himself and all he knows himself to be. He looks at the gun in hands that don’t feel like his own, looks at the faceless man below him, and looks at the bodies that suddenly cover the ground as far as he can see. 

_ Two years, _ says the third voice, and with a start, Spain recognizes it as his own,  _ eight months, one week, two days.  _

Spain flicks the safety off. The corpses are groaning, a perforating sound in the unnerving silence. 

_ Kill him _ , says the first voice, demanding.

In the distance, somebody is being executed. Spain isn’t sure who is on what side anymore. He isn’t sure who  _ he _ is anymore. He’s staring at the hands that are his but not his, staring at the gun, staring at the man. Antonio lifts the gun-

_ Kill him! _

-and points it at his own head.

\--

Lately, Spain is glad he doesn’t remember his nightmares.

It doesn’t stop the subtle trembling in his fingers. Are these hands his own?

\--

The next time Veneziano shows, England is with him. He’s going against the wishes of his own government - the English aren’t supposed to be aiding Spain, but England manages to slip away often, comes when Spain needs him most. 

Spain keeps trying to ground himself, struggling. His heart thrums rapidly in his throat and his breath comes in quick gasps. It feels as though there’s a foot crushing his throat, pressing down harder with every struggling breath. He’s tucked up against the curve of England’s body, clinging onto the arm wrapped over his chest as though it’s his lifeline. 

“I can’t breathe,” he chokes out, “Arthur, I can’t breathe.”

He feels the way the other man is tense against him, fingers combing through Spain’s hair, holding him tight, but not tight enough to make him feel more suffocated. 

“Focus on me, Antonio,” he tells him, softly, “only on me. I’m here.”

Spain listens to the sound of his heartbeat. It’s picked up, and Spain can’t tell if it’s because of worry or something else. His throat and chest feel tight and he’s shaking violently, fingers dragging hard against England’s arm, no doubt bruising the skin. He’s sweating, hair clinging to his face. But god, he focuses on the sound of England’s heartbeat. It’s the only thing keeping him steady, keeping him grounded. 

Gradually, it stops. His shaking ceases first, his vision clears second, and finally, slowly, he manages to breathe. He doesn’t release England’s arm, only stares blankly at the peeling wallpaper past England’s shoulder. 

His chest feels hollow. 

They stay like that until steady, deliberate footsteps echo in the room. 

“Veneziano,” England regards him with chilling eyes.

“England,” Veneziano smiles, “I wasn’t expecting to see you here. Isn’t your government forcing you to stay neutral?”

England doesn’t reply. Spain’s energy is depleted. He just wants this to be done. He lifts his gaze slowly, dragging it over to the Italian. “Why are you here, Veneziano?”

“I think it’s about time you gave up,” says North Italy, “after all, look at yourself, Spain.”

“Fine,” he replies, softly, “whatever makes this  _ stop. _ ”

“ _ No, _ ” England’s voice is harsh and sudden, “you aren’t going to give in to this so easily, Antonio. And  _ you _ aren’t going to make him. Leave here, Italy.”

Veneziano tips his head, and just for a second, Spain wonders if he sees a flash of that childish curiosity he knows. “Oh,” he muses, “I see. You two have a different relationship than I originally thought.”

Spain’s thinking. His mind is whirring, registering England’s words and Veneziano’s words and the civil war. 

Two years, eight months, two weeks.

“Get out, Veneziano.”

The Italian starts, hazel eyes going wide. He takes a step back, hands coming up near his lower chest. Spain’s voice is hard, stronger than it’s been in a while. Delicately, he slips free from England’s grip and staggers to his feet. Briefly, fear darts over Veneziano’s soft features, then something like anger. 

“You-!”

“ _ You heard me. _ ” 

It isn’t a question. Spain advances, pulling his old halberd from its resting place on his wall. He lifts it, a familiar weapon in a hand that feels like his own again, leveling it at Veneziano’s chest. The Italian is shivering. When all's said and done, he’s still the same kid Spain knows. One day, he’ll apologize for this. 

Today is not that day. 

Veneziano only holds Spain’s steely gaze for a moment, before he backpedals rapidly, stumbling. “Y-You’re a fool, Antonio! Both of you! Even  _ you _ can’t stop what’s to come. Germany’s going to change the world, and only  _ one _ of us is going to be on the right side when he does!”

The brunet whirls and darts away. Spain waits until his running steps fade down the hall before he drops his halberd with a clatter and slumps back down to his knees. England crosses to him, crouching down to rest his forehead against Spain’s own. 

“Thank you,” Spain whispers, “for everything."

\--

Three days later, the Spanish Civil War comes to an end. It’s not a happy ending, but Spain knows where he stands now. He knows what he’s working towards. 

Two years, eight months, two weeks, three days. 

Another war is on the horizon.


End file.
